Among the many great houses in this metropolis, none were more artistically and voluptuously arranged than the mansion of Ouida Angelo, the sculptress. There were parlors and drawing-rooms, a study, a library, dining room in exquisitely carved oak, while the boudoir of the artist was a perfect dream. She had costly paintings and pieces of marble statuary for which a monarch would almost give his crown, and all arranged and placed with perfect artistic and poetic taste. Ouida’s boudoir was palatial with its tiger skin rugs, couches, mirrors and jeweled cases. Her sleeping couch was draped in richest silks, and was as soft and as alluring as ever enticed to sleep the troubled head of a queen. On leaving the church, Ouida had entered her carriage, in which, by an imperious wave of the hand, she had been driven quickly to her residence. There, with the assistance of her sweet-faced maid, she had disrobed and was quickly attired in a soft and clinging negligee apparel, which women delight in, and which men cannot describe. This done, pointing to the door, she almost fiercely said: “Go!” The little maid stood a moment, amazed, for never before had her mistress been so harsh, but slowly she turned and silently moved toward the door. Ouida, quickly shamed into atonement, said: “Lucile!” Quickly and gladly the joyous girl bounded back, and almost tearfully said: “Is my mistress angry with me?” “Child,” said Ouida, “I angry with you!” The great creature stooped and kissed Lucile’s forehead. “I am troubled with the nasty world.” Left alone, the artist paced the floor of her boudoir like a lioness from whose breasts her cubs had been rudely torn. “I hate them all. None can be trusted. This one seemed nobler than the rest. I revealed more of the woman in me to him than to any creature born. See how he repays me, my art. I could forgive him who preaches against my life, for I have given the world the right to talk; but when he attacks true art, the Goddess at whose shrine I worship, when he ridicules my religion, I feel as though my heart would crack with rage. “Bravery, thou art extinct, and there is a premium placed on public cowardice. He attacks me from a safe place, behind the battlements of the pulpit. I indulged in the vain hope of having won the respect of one honest man, among the contemptible puppies by which I am surrounded, and I find that he, too, has a narrow, putrid soul. He wants to enhance his reputation at my expense. A vulgar woman would horsewhip him. I cannot so commonize myself. A barbarous woman would kill him, a bold woman would insult him. My vengeance upon him shall not be commonplace. “A fool, too, he is. There is no wisdom in him. Does he think he can rob me of the affection of New York? What idiotic nonsense! Not a thousand sermons could do that. My place in art is greater than his in the church.